Out of Breath

Chapter 1

Two weeks before

Alyssa

Santa Cruz in the fall—there’s nothing better. All summer, a thick blanket of fog huddled overhead, letting through only a few hours of sunlight at a time. Oma says it reminds her of the days when she and my mother lived in West Germany and the winter skies nearly drove them mad. People come in droves to northern California beaches in the summer, but only we locals know that fall begins a stream of sunny days.

I sprinkle a palm full of broccoli seeds in several holes I’ve dug and push my straw hat back into place. Finally I’ve gotten organized enough to plant a winter garden. I overturn the dirt clods that litter the yard hoping to transform it into a garden of color and sustenance. A tubful of bulbs—orange and pink tulips, yellow and white daffodils, purple irises—is perched against the fence where my one-and-a-half year old daughter, Nevaeh is content spooning shovels of dirt across her pudgy legs. I’m running close to D time—that’s what Nevaeh says when I say her older sister is on her way back from kindergarten, ‘D-time! D-time.’ The bulbs will have to wait until tomorrow morning.

It’s our family’s fifth year of solely depending on Seth’s income. It’s rough. As popular as his surf shop is, it still only gives us a meager monthly salary. Most of the profits are pumped right back into the business and the huge expense of living here. I know I should be grateful. Daisy’s in a school that teaches mindfulness as well as academics; the weather here allows us to be outside nearly every day; and my grandmother and a handful of friends support us. Paradise, right?

Yet I feel empty and lonely. I wrestle with the deep, familiar ache of Seth’s absence. His presence in our family is intermittent at best, and not just from working long hours. My stomach sours recalling how he missed Daisy’s first day at West Side Arts Academy. The waves were incredible and I just lost track of time. Don’t be mad, babe, he’d offered, as though his absence was a novelty.

Daisy will be home in just minutes. Time flies by and it looks like I’ve accomplished nothing all day. Inside, a mountain of dress-up clothes litters the family room. Unstrung wooden beads dot the scuffed kitchen table. Duke, our chocolate lab, continues to lap up bits of homemade Play Doh that are scattered across the kitchen’s peeling, yellow linoleum. Looking around at the constant disarray, I wonder, where am I in all of this? I love being a mother, but at the end of the day after the girls are tucked in, I ache for more.

I organize my days around Seth’s work schedule, Daisy’s school hours, and Nevaeh’s naps. Seth would barely see the girls at all during the week if I didn’t pack up a picnic, and take the three of us down to his shop. In the last three weeks, between squeezing in surf lessons, waiting for equipment to be returned, and catching a few sets himself, he hasn’t been home before 8:00; well after the girls are asleep. His high school intern is back in school and Jeff his assistant…well, Jeff is about as dependable as Oma’s old Ford Pinto.

Wiping my brow, I push down these nagging thoughts. Come on baby, let’s give you a bath before Sasha drops off Daisy and Fiona, I say, surveying my baby whose blanket and body are covered with dirt. Nevaeh smiles up at me with her teeny white teeth and mop of blonde curls blowing in the breeze. All of the angst about my sense of purpose melts as I bury my nose into Nevaeh’s neck, kissing her moist, baby skin. Oh, Nevaeh, Nevaeh. You are truly the air that I breathe, I whisper as Nevaeh plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

The afternoon is a whirlwind. Daisy and her friend Fiona’s boisterous laughter result in Nevaeh being awakened. She screams and is inconsolable. I rock her in the rocking chair by the fireplace, softly singing lullabies, but it’s useless. Each time she drifts off, another chorus of giggles or the screech of excited little girls startles Nevaeh out of her sleep once more.

By 4:30, Fiona’s been picked up, Nevaeh continues to wail, Daisy is ushering a string of demands for juice and a puppet show, and I’m plastering on Rescue Remedy like lotion. I want you to play with me, Mommy, Daisy hollers from her bedroom.

I put Nevaeh down on the rocker telling her to sit still for a minute and march into Daisy’s room. I feel my face getting hotter with every step I take. That’s it Daisy! I’ve had it! I might have had time for a story or puppet show right now if you hadn’t woken your sister up every five minutes. Now, go sit on your bed.

Daisy’s big brown eyes grow even wider and her lip quivers. Even I am startled at the volume of my voice. She races off to her room and slams the door. It just adds to the chorus pouring out of Nevaeh’s mouth. Gently, I lift Nevaeh from the rocker and mutter to myself, I love my screaming baby. Even after hours of crying. I love my screaming baby. Laying her down on my bed, I summon all of my conscientious teacher training and patience and whisper, Nevaeh, I need to go talk to Daisy. I hurt her feelings and made her sad. Could you please lie in Mommy’s bed and get it all warm for her?

Nevaeh inhales. Her breath is choppy from so much crying. She nods ‘yes’, and promptly grabs her filthy, pink blankie, pops her thumb in her mouth, and lets out a big sigh. I want to crawl in bed beside her and sleep the rest of the day. There it is, that special bond we share. I think we know the language of one another’s hearts, even though she’s just a baby herself. With Daisy, I pray for peaceful moments. She’s not a snuggler or one to settle by my side with a book and lazily let the hours pass. Seth and I joke that she’s his first-born son. When Seth does have a free moment, he’s suiting her up in her miniature wet suit and teaching her how to paddle and stand up on small waves.

I know Seth wanted a boy. It was the way he talked about Daisy when she was in the womb: the trades he’d teach her, the way they’d hang out down by the water, go on surf trips. I told him that girls do that, too. I think the thought of a daughter scared him, like she’d be fragile, in need of protection, maybe secretly worrying that someday a guy would treat her like he treated women in the past. Luckily, Daisy came out kicking. Even a tumble onto the concrete hardly fazed her. By two-years-old, she was begging to be with Daddy out in the water.

Gently closing my bedroom door, I hear Daisy crying. It sounds like the mews of an abused alley cat. Guilt. Shame. I knock on the door. Daisy, can I come in?

No! I want to talk to Daddy.

Ouch. I probably deserve that. Then again, if the tables were turned and Seth yelled at her, would she refuse to speak to him? Actually, I can’t remember a time when he ever yelled at either of them. Or me. It isn’t his way. Walk away and walk out, yes.

I struggle with what to say. I’m very sorry I yelled, Daisy. When you are ready to open the door, I’d like to give you a hug.

Go away! she screams.

After several minutes of lying down on the couch to recollect myself, I hear her footsteps behind me. Her eyes are downcast. She wriggles her way under my arm and lets me hold her. If I could freeze time, I would. Thank you, God. As I bathe in our truce, the back door from the garage swings open. It’s Seth. Daisy scrambles out of my arms and leaps into his. Any newfound relaxation drains away.

I listen to their chatter about her day and how Seth saw a pod of dolphins when he taught a lesson this morning. I wander into the kitchen, feeling out of place, and pull out a saucepan to boil some pasta. Each day after Seth arrives home, I anticipate a nibble on my neck or his hands to trace my back, trailing down past my waistline. Lately, a nod of the head is all I’ll get before he grabs a beer and heads to our bathroom for a shower.

I peer over my shoulder and watch Seth pull a Heineken from the six-pack in his hand. He sits in my rocker and pulls Daisy onto his lap with one arm. His arms are muscular and brown from day after day of paddling the surf. I miss the feeling of being inside them, and yet, I want more…a soul connection.

Tell me a story Daddy, Daisy says.

It’s a ritual he keeps with Daisy whenever he’s home at night. He’s a master storyteller, weaving tales that could silence Huck Finn. Often he embellishes stories of his childhood in Santa Cruz, toning down the scandalous parts to make him and his friends look less like hellions and more like saints. I wonder if he’s tamed all of his wild hairs or if he’s just learned to comb them differently.

So, there I was, surfing down at the Hook, when all of a sudden, something was pulling on my leash.

It wasn’t a shark, was it? Daisy asks, nearly bouncing up and down with anticipation.

I thought it was that horrible sea monster that they found 100 years ago. But after I looked around, I saw this amazing mermaid with long, brown hair, just like yours.

I watch Seth play with Daisy’s hair. A smile slowly spreads across her face and her eyes brighten. Really?

Really.

My heart grows warm. I want to be a part. I leave the water to boil and walk back into the family room to listen. I decide to move in closer, feeling forgiving of Seth’s shortcomings for the moment. As I drape my arms behind him, I draw in a deep breath when, wham, it hits me—that scent—damn it, that familiar, home-wrecking, sweet, smoky scent. Not resin, or the smell of kelp. God, it can’t be. He promised that we were his top priority. I want to scream as my temples begin to pulsate.

Seth, I interrupt, Umm, I need to see you in the garage. Now.

Both Seth and Daisy stare up at me as though I’ve just told them that garbage is for dinner. Mommy, he’s not done, Daisy whines.

Seth ignores me and continues his mermaid story. No. Seth, this can’t wait. He nudges Daisy off his lap.

Honey, go on down and play in your room for a minute. Mom and I will be there in a sec. Daisy pads down the hall as though she were just given a prison sentence.

We step out into the garage. Seth runs his hands through his hair. Bits of sand fall to the already gritty floor. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?

I want to slap him for insulting my intelligence. Seriously, Seth. Like I’m not going to notice. I can’t believe this is happening again. When did you start getting high again?

Seth glares at me. You know, it feels like I’m talking to my mother rather than my wife. He turns to go back in the house. You need to back off, he continues.

Before he can walk back in, I grab the shoulder of his sweatshirt. He turns and shoots me an angry look. You can’t walk away from this. It’s too important and I can’t do this by myself. I’m alone night after night. What the hell is going on that you won’t even… I struggle to find the words, …be with me. My eyes pan the garage that is stuffed with the six years of our lives: old clothes, pictures, baby toys. What’s it going to take, Seth, something to happen to me or one of the girls to get you to wake up?

Seth holds up a hand telling me to stop. We’ll talk about this later, Alyssa. The girls need their dinner and Daisy needs her bath.

I’m fuming. As if he ever thought about what any of us need. It’s just a way to get me to shut up. We proceed with the evening—dinner, bath time, and tucks into bed. Nevaeh sleeps through it all. Seth escapes to the garage leaving me alone to sip my tea that promises calm while I wonder who will break the silence first. But then I know that’s a ridiculous thought. It’s always me. Our whole relationship has been punctuated by moments of silence and great passion.

I think back to the time we moved in together. We’d only known one another for three months. I was giddy, in love (or lust), and totally out of touch with the voice inside me that was tapping at the glass to get me to pay attention to Seth’s erratic behavior. Looking over at Seth’s empty beer bottle on the mantle, I remember this one winter morning, a week into living together. Beer bottles lined the counters from late nights with Jeff and his other buddies. Dirty laundry mounded in the corners of the bedroom and bathroom. Surf wax, invoices, and Zig Zag rolling papers cluttered the desk. I cranked up one of my retro-disco CD’s, opened the windows, snapped on a pair of gloves, and started a deep clean.

I was singing along to Earth, Wind and Fire, when I heard the front door slam and saw Seth’s keys skid across the freshly polished counter tops. Seth scowled, hitting the off button of the stereo, What the hell’s this? he asked, referring to my music. Who even listens to this crap anymore?

A week later, I found my CD in the trash, cracked in half. When I’d asked him how it got that way, he made up some lame excuse about one of his tools bumping into it. It was the start of Seth chipping away parts of me that he found unacceptable.

If I hadn’t wound up late for my next period, I wonder if I would have stayed at all. Any hesitation I had was pushed aside when Seth brought home a cradle he’d hand carved along with an armful of flowers…daisies. I was carrying our first daughter. Let’s call her Daisy, he’d whispered in bed after making love. I was reeled back in, telling myself that everything would be better after the baby.

Daisy’s asleep and the house is finally quiet. I don’t know how to get Seth to open up. Oma, cluing into Seth’s and my distance with one another, has given me the name of a therapist she knows in town—Katherine Middlebrook. She said she specialized in grief, but did a fair amount of couple’s work. Her specialty suits us fine. In college, I’d seen a therapist for nearly six months about my abandoning, erratic, mother. The counselor’s revelation that was supposed to be life changing: I looked for men who abandoned me just as my mother had. I quit after that session.

I throw off the blanket that has failed to take the chill from me. Opening the garage, I stand in silence and watch my husband. He’s in the early stages of crafting a custom surfboard. Saws, glue, resin, sealants, and dust masks litter the expansive table where he’s working. Sweat is pearled across his nose and along his creased forehead. It’s the same spots where Daisy’s sweat pools when she runs non-stop on the beach or playground.

Seth is beyond good looking to me—he’s breathtaking. His defined, muscular arms work back and forth in an angry, sexual way. He’s completely involved in his work as though nothing else in the world matters; something that drew me to him the minute we met. I always feel that there’s a quiet, brooding storm that’s ready to erupt, contained in his movements and stares.

He doesn’t hear my footsteps over the angry lyrics of Kurt Cobain. I slip my hands around his waist. Seth startles. He reaches over and lowers the music, takes a drag off his cigarette, and blows smoke off to the side. The garage is the one place he’s allowed to smoke at home. I thought you were pissed.

I am, I reply. I stroke his arms and trace his tight abdominal muscles.

Seth stubs out his cigarette and his eyes squint the way they do when he’s furious or turned on. He leans in and kisses me deeply on the mouth. I fall into his dirt, sweat, and the mess between us. I breathe in familiarity, exhaling forgiveness.

Remember how I used to visit you at your shop when we were first together? I undo the top two buttons of his Levis. His hipbones are prominent over the lip of his waist band pointing to his sculpted abs.

Yeah, he says.

Seth yanks off my shirt and pushes me down to the sofa. He kisses me all along my back, down to the word dream that I had tattooed this year for my 30th birthday. I grab his mound of brown curls and pull him into me. I taste the sweeter, simpler times when it was just the two of us. My ache is temporarily soothed. As I lay naked in his arms, I get part of what I’d come for.

I miss this. I miss you. Where have you been? I say, hoping he won’t pull away.

Seth is very still and quiet. I fear I’ve pushed for answers too fast. He reaches over to his jeans that are tangled up with my clothes, and pulls out his pack of Camels. He slowly lights his cigarette, and draws a long drag as he sits up. I don’t know ‘Lyss, I know I screwed up. I can’t even talk about it right now. He’s standing above me. His 6’2 frame towers over me. He’s running a hand through his hair again. My mom is totally messing with my head and I’m thinkin’ about how I’m going to make enough to add to our inventory for the holidays. I don’t even know how you put up with me. I just needed somethin’ to calm me down."

Seth is split wide open, the way he was when I first met him and we’d make love until one of us would drop from exhaustion. I’ll never forget the first time it happened. We’d had an afternoon of insatiable, raw, almost animalistic sex. As the rain began to ping against the window of Seth’s room, I felt water drip onto my arm. I searched the ceiling for a watermark, then saw where the water had come from—Seth’s eyes. Hold me. Don’t ever leave me, he’d whispered. I felt like I was comforting a child, drying his tears with my kiss.

I stand and bring him into an embrace. We’ll figure it out, Seth. We always do.

Staring intensely into my eyes, he replies, I’m going to turn this around. I promise. After tonight, no more getting’ loaded and bein’ away from you and the girls—swear.

I gently take his face in my hands just like I do when I comfort my children from a bad dream, offering the same words of comfort, It’s going to be alright.

You believe me? he asks.

I believe you.

Chapter 2

Two weeks ago

Katherine

Client cancellations afford me the freedom to slip away down to the ocean, breathe in the salt air, and clear my head from the drama of other people’s lives. I watch the eucalyptus sway in the breeze on the cliffs above. Usually, this grounds me, reminding me that life isn’t full of pain all of the time.

That will not be the case today. We’re having an unseasonably, foggy, damp day and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why my mother wants to meet me down here, unless… Her message on my voice mail said she needed to talk. Her over-enthusiastic tone used to cover up real emotions was what got my attention and led me to cancel my afternoon clients. Just wanted to have a little talk and see if you could work me in. She was a terrible liar in her drinking days. Now that she’s sober, nearly twenty years, she’s worse.

Sitting on the concrete wall, overlooking the sand in Rio Del Mar, I watch a handful of mothers and their toddlers bundled up around a picnic of Goldfish crackers, juice boxes, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Wasn’t it just yesterday that Collin, Tory and I did the same? Aside from the family on the beach, a couple of teens smoking and texting, I am the only person within a mile. I wonder if this little talk with Mom is going to be the beginning of the end.

Within minutes, I hear the distinct sound of her Accord pull up behind me in the parking lot. She primps in the rearview mirror, checking her make-up, brushing back a wisp of grey hair that is out of place. I stand and watch her lock the door, check that it is indeed locked, and return her wave. She’s limping—a lot. It’s not sciatica. Damn it.

Hi, Mom. I lean in and kiss her cheek. She smells of Merle Norman pressed powder and Youth Dew.

Oh, Katie, it’s so good to see you, she replies, as though we see one another only once a year rather than every other day. She’s the only one on the planet allowed to call me Katie. Katie sounds like a nine-year-old girl with pigtails. But then, this is probably how my mother sees me despite my fifty plus years and a PhD.

I survey her limp and ask, Shall we find a bench, or—

A bench would be fine, she replies almost too quickly and with the same high-pitched voice as she did on my answering machine.

We walk arm in arm, slow and silent for a good fifty yards then find a bench with a memorial plaque on it: David Whipple—father, friend, missed. It’s both endearing and ominous. Immediately I feel the moisture of the bench penetrate my pants. I worry that the cold will hurt my mother’s hips.

Seconds pass, feeling like hours, and the silence becomes painful. With clients, I can wait all hour if that’s what they need to sort out their thoughts or feelings. Now, I’m like a fresh intern, ready to fill in the pauses and uncomfortable moments of quiet. So, Mom, tell me what brings you out on this strange, foggy fall day?

She smiles. The crow’s feet around her eyes dig in deep. Mom didn’t age well—drinking hard for thirty years never plays out well on the face. Oh, Katie, but I guess you know? she asks, rhetorically.

I smile back, but only to be polite. My nose tingles from the tears that are forming. Through the fog, I make out the front of the cement ship, the S.S. Palo Alto. Built in 1918, it was docked in 1929 and used as a casino and dance hall. Slowly it sank under its own weight, rendering it unsafe for entertainment, but fine as a fishing pier. Now, only the wooden pier leading up to it can be used for fishing. Across a chain-linked fence separating the boat from the pier are signs warning of its danger: Do not trespass. Dangerous. I can feel myself sinking, thinking this conversation is one I do not want to have.

Tell me what the doctor said. I look straight ahead. All my years in Hospice and private practice as a grief counselor, and yet I can’t make eye contact with my mother at this critical moment.

It’s back, she says, her voice devoid of any emotions. The words hit me like a tidal wave. It’s in my bones. Oh dear God, not bone cancer. A group of sanderlings run along the water’s edge like children playing tag with the water.

Finally, my third eye kicks in and tells me to look at how aloof I am being and to reach out and comfort my mother. I don’t want to comfort anyone, though. I want someone to comfort me and tell me everything is going to be fine if I am a good girl, eat my vegetables, go to church, and treat everyone as I wished to be treated. I turn and see that my mother is also off someplace else in her mind. I put my arm around her and open my mouth to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ but nothing comes out. I just let the tears fall and finally, she breaks, and her tears merge with mine.

Back home, I survey my upcoming client list and curse. I forgot to cancel my new client at 6:00—shoot. I made special arrangements to work him in tonight because of his schedule. I’ve got to make adjustments in my practice now that Mom’s cancer is back. I check my account balances on-line and figure I could limit my practice to fifteen clients rather than thirty. After Tory followed Collin down to UC Santa Barbara, I nearly doubled my caseload to fill the emptiness. My husband, Carl has been after me for over a year to work less. I tell him it’s who I am. He says I’m the one who’ll need a shrink if I don’t stop listening to other people’s poison all day long. How can I explain to him that when I’m with someone in the room, it isn’t poison? It’s an invitation into their very soul—an honor, a privilege, to bear witness to their pain, struggles and revelations. What’s new is how terribly exhausted I am by the end of the day and less fresh the next morning. Chalk it up to menopause, I suppose. Sometimes cancellations are answers to prayers so I can rest or sit at the sea.

Now I need to factor in my mother’s prognosis: two years at best, six months or less if it continues to metastasize. With the kids away at college, I can certainly move her in if her health rapidly declines. Carl and I can take turns with the help of a Hospice volunteer and staff. Just the word Hospice sends a jolt through me—her death is really going to happen. When I worked at our local Hospice, it was like working with saints walking the earth, but I was still removed; death was outside of me. Now I must invite the saints to live amongst us.

I push aside these thoughts as I swing open my cottage door—an in-law quarters that Carl and I remodeled and decorated for my therapy office. Even though these walls are witness to great pain, it's my place of refuge. It’s altogether my space—from the Steve Hank’s paintings, depicting families in various combinations down at the sea, to the floral, high backed chairs that I reupholstered. A red light flashes on my answering machine. I push the button to retrieve my messages. Jean is cancelling tomorrow at 3:00. Predictable. She isn’t ready to talk about her husband’s death. I sift through the mail that is stacked half a foot high. There’s an invitation for me to speak this spring in Monterey. I file it in the to do basket.

My new client, Greg, will be here in less than ten minutes. Just enough time